Standing on
the back stoop of our tiny house, I could see that the sky was brightening up,
but you couldn’t call it daylight yet. I could see my breath hanging in the air
like little patches of fog. If I hadn’t been eight-months pregnant, with
hormones that stoked my internal furnace to an unnaturally high temperature, I
would have been shivering in my house slippers. Instead, I was actually
comfortable.

So was Bronwyn “Brawny”
Macavity, our nanny. Of course, Brawny is the original Celtic warrior, a Stoic
of the first order. Nothing fazes her.

Nothing except a call from her
brother that their ninety-five-year-old mother took a fall off a curb in
Aberdeen, Scotland, and broke her hip. Now that
got her attention.

“Do you have everything?” I asked Bronwyn Macavity, our nanny. Instead of
her usual garb—a kilt, white blouse and knee socks—Brawny was wearing plaid
slacks, a white blouse, and a red cashmere sweater, an outfit reminiscent of girls attending a
parochial school in St. Louis.

“Aye, I think so. The gifts for
me mum are in the big suitcase that Detective Detweiler took to the car, and my
passport and papers are in my new backpack,” she said, with a pat to the black
bag at her feet.

Exhaust fumes were rising from the big Impala where my fiancé Detective
Chad Detweiler, the father of my baby, was warming the car for Brawny. Although
she couldn’t have cared less, it was a nice gesture.

The temperature had dipped last night and a light coating of frost dusted
the grass like sugar on a donut. Detweiler was getting ready to drive our nanny
to Lambert International, the St. Louis Airport. From there she would fly to
London’s Gatwick, and from Gatwick, where one of her sisters would meet her and
take her to her mother’s house.

“You promise to let us know
you’ve arrived safely?” I hated to see Brawny go. Since she’d joined our family
in July, Brawny had proved herself to be a wonderful nanny and a steadfast
friend.

“Aye.”

“Do you want me to wake the
children?” I didn’t want to, but I thought I should ask.

“No, I gave Anya a kiss and Erik
an extra cuddle last night. We looked at the calendar. That was a right smart
idea you had, Miss Kiki, to color in the days I’d be gone. It’ll make it much
easier for him to keep track. Anya said she’d help him.”

“He’ll be fine. Family first,” I
said firmly. “Your mother needs you. Your siblings do, too. You can decide as a
group what’s best for her. We can handle whatever happens here, but you’d never
forgive yourself if you didn’t go home now and see what’s what.”

We insisted that Brawny fly home
when she told us about her mother’s tumble. She needed to be there when her
siblings conferred about what they should do next. The fall broke their mother’s
hip. It was one of those life-threatening accidents that can happen to elderly
women. Since Brawny hadn’t been home in two years, her sense of worry was
intensified by the realization her mother was growing not only older but more
fragile.

“Me mum’s always been up and going. Here, there and yonder. Visiting with
her friends, playing cards, and helping out at church,” said Brawny. “But me
brother Hamish tells me she hadn’t left the house in weeks before the accident.
The fact that she’d been staying to home tells me she’s not herself.”

Yes, it was imperative that
Brawny return to Scotland, although we all hated to see her go. Erik in particular
would miss his nanny. She’d been with him from birth, and Brawny had provided
much needed stability in the boy’s life. Five-year-old Erik had come to live
with us only five months ago after his mother (Gina) and her second husband (Van Lauber) died in
a car accident in California.

Brawny accompanied the boy as a “gift” to our busy family, given by Erik’s
Aunt Lori (Lorraine Lauber). Lorraine had rightly surmised that Brawny’s
presence would ease the boy’s transition and help us adjust to having a new
family member.

“I’m sorry to be leaving you like this, in the lurch, so to speak. What
with so much of the boxing up yet to be done,” Brawny said, interrupting my
thoughts.

After my landlord Leighton
Haversham lost all his money to his scheming daughter, he could no longer
afford to keep the huge family home he’d grown up in. We lived on the spacious
grounds of that house, in a former garage that he’d converted. Since there were
five of us (counting Brawny), and one on the way, we were crammed into a
too-small space. He, on the other hand, was rattling around in the vast
5,000-square foot family home. So Lorraine had purchased Leighton’s property in
order to rent the big house to us for a pittance. Leighton would be moving into
our current home and paying her a nominal amount of rent to her as well.

At first, we’d argued with Lorraine, because this seemed like charity.
The big house should have rented for a lot more money than we could afford to
pay.

“How can it be charity when all parties benefit?” she asked.

She was right. After the death of her brother and sister-in-law, Lorraine
had taken on the role of becoming our “fairy godmother,” and she loved it. A
spinster with no family besides Erik, she relished how we’d “adopted” him—and
her—with open arms, long before she started showering us with gifts. She was
pleased to provide more space for Erik to romp around in. We were relieved to
have found a spot that was both affordable and convenient. My daughter was
thrilled that we weren’t leaving the beautiful property she’d come to love. And
Leighton was happiest of all.

Because most of his family furnishings wouldn’t fit in the converted
garage, we’d even decided to trade much of our furniture. He was happy that his
parents’ lovely things wouldn’t be sitting around gathering dust in a storage
unit. We were both thrilled that we could stay neighbors. Especially after his
daughter’s scheming, Leighton had come to think of us as his real family.

With the house-swap decided, Brawny had cheerfully taken on the
responsibility for packing us up and getting us ready to move. She is a wonder.
In addition to caring for Erik and easing his transition into his new family,
she had also assumed carpool duties, taking both Erik and my thirteen-year-old
daughter, Anya, to school. She did most of our laundry and made most of our
meals. If that wasn’t enough, she’d also made herself useful teaching knitting at
my scrapbooking and craft store, Time in a Bottle. Of course, when my own baby
came in January, she’d be an absolute godsend.

As I watched Detweiler hold the
passenger side door open for Brawny, a lump form in my throat. I would miss
her. I also fought a growing sense of nervous tension. For us to move from this
small house into our new, larger place, seemed like a gargantuan task!
Especially since I’d hoped we could celebrate at least some of the nights of
Hanukkah in the new place and then get it decorated for Christmas.

I sure wished she wasn’t leaving. But Brawny was doing the right thing.

Family first.

Even when it’s a family you’ve cobbled together.

Chapter 2

Monday (Hanukkah starts Wednesday at
sundown)

Cara Mia’s apartment above The Treasure
Chest in Stuart, Florida

~ Cara Mia ~

I woke up to
the sunlight streaming through my window. Outside I heard the cry of a seagull
and the soft rustling of palm fronds. Another day in Paradise!

As quietly as possible, I got out of bed, dressed, and crept around my
small apartment, trying not to wake my son, Tommy, who was sleeping in my
living room on my new sofa bed. But despite my best efforts, when the toaster
noisily popped up my slice of bread, Tommy sat bolt upright in his bed.

“Sorry, honey,” I said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Wassup, Mom?” He rubbed his eyes.

“Nothing, honey. My toaster seems to be jet propelled this morning. Can I
make you a cup of hot chocolate?”

In the run up to the Christmas
holiday, it was a family tradition that I’d start his mornings with a cup of
hot chocolate. Each day in December I would add another tiny marshmallow until
twenty-five of them crowded the top of his mug. Sort of like a liquid Advent
Calendar for Tommy.

This morning, he drank the hot beverage without a word besides, “Thank
you.” That didn’t surprise me. He was still half-asleep. Like most college
students, his body clock was all off. He’d been up until late last night, sending
messages over his computer to his friends in St. Louis.

After he finished his drink, he
sat there in a tangled heap of covers and stared off into space. His right hand
was busy stroking Jack, the white Chihuahua that I’d adopted. Jack usually
slept with me, but once Tommy was home, I was yesterday’s news. So much for
loyalty!

I didn’t prod Tommy to talk. I
could guess what he was thinking about. Yesterday, I had driven down to Coral Gables
and picked him up at University of Miami for winter break. Once he had helped
me navigate my way back onto Highway 95, he’d warned me he wasn’t happy with
how he’d done on his tests.

“I guess I’ve been having too much fun,” he had admitted sheepishly.

“Nothing you can do about that
right now,” I’d said. “You’re done for the holidays. Try to relax and enjoy the
time off. If the test grades are bad, we can talk later about what you need to
do.”

He didn’t say much during the drive up the coast to Stuart.

Nor had he said anything when we climbed the stairs to our little
apartment above my new business, The Treasure Chest. I’d tried to make him
comfortable by buying a nice fold-out sofa bed but admittedly the
accommodations were a bit cramped. However, in my humble opinion, the view of
the intracoastal waterway
right outside our window made up for the lack of space.

I’d considered the matter of his
tests dealt with and done. But obviously, Tommy didn’t agree. As he sat there
on the bed, he was chewing on his bottom lip, a sign that something was bugging
him.

“What’s wrong?” I said, as I retrieved the empty mug from the side table.
“I can tell your mind is going a mile a minute. Are you still worried about
your exams?”

“No, I’m not thinking about my
tests.”

I rinsed out the mug and waited, hoping that Tommy would hurry up and
talk. Since re-opening The Treasure Chest, I’ve been busy as the proverbial
bee, darting here and there, trying to revamp, revive, and re-introduce the
business to the Stuart community. What had once been a successful antique and
curiosity store had fallen onto hard times shortly before its owner, Essie Feldman,
died. The building had been an empty eyesore when I snapped up. While my
purchase seemed whimsical to outsiders, The Treasure Chest was actually a place
that I knew well. Each summer until I was seventeen, my parents had rented the
upstairs apartment for our vacation home.

That single living space had long since been divided into two units,
mirror-images of themselves. I’d rented out the second unit to my new friend
and co-worker Skye Blue.

Skye had been a great help as I had worked feverishly to re-open the doors
of The Treasure Chest, just in time for the tourist season in Florida. So had
MJ Austin, who’d worked at the original store, and who knew a lot about selling
antiques and collectibles. First we had refurbished the interior of the building
on a shoestring. Then we had to stock the place on a dime. Since all this
happened so close to the holidays, coming up with enough stock to sell had been
particularly challenging.

Since I hadn’t had the time to set up accounts with vendors, we’d been forced
to hand make most of what we sold. Coming up with items that were unique,
upcycled, recycled, and repurposed goods, really stretched our creative
muscles. But so far the “snowbirds,” our temporary residents from up north, had
found our wares incredibly appealing.

That created a new problem: producing enough merchandise to keep up with
demand.

And with each day, that demand was growing. I had to admit, we’d not only
done a good job of revitalizing The Treasure Chest. We’d done a great job!

Even my son thought The Treasure
Chest was “sick,” which is teen-speak for “awesome.”

“If the tests aren’t bothering
you, what is it? Maybe I can help,” I said to Tommy.

“Um, doubtful.”

I tousled his dark curls so like
my own. “Why not give me a chance?”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly.
“Last night I was Skyping with my friends from St. Louis last night, and Joseph
Popyck is having a party. This Friday. I’m invited. But I know I can’t go.”

Jack looked up at Tommy and pawed
my son’s arm in a show of doggy sympathy. The two had bonded immediately. Now the
little dog seemed incredibly sensitive to Tommy’s moods.

“Why can’t you go to the party?”
I asked. “What’s keeping you here?”

“You know.”

Oh. I’d forgotten.

I could have given myself a dope slap to the forehead.

Tommy hated air travel. Planes
freaked him out. Made him sick. The only way he could handle flying was to take
an Ambien before he boarded the plane so he could snooze the entire trip.

Giving a teenager Ambien was NOT my idea. My ex-husband Dominic had handed
Tommy a vial of the pills. I wanted to throttle my ex when I learned what he’d
done.

Worst of all, the Ambien worked. Sort of. Tommy could travel, but he
couldn’t travel alone. The Ambien did a great job of knocking him out, but it
had a nasty side effect. If Tommy couldn’t go immediately to sleep after
popping the pill, or if he had to wake up before he got eight hours of
shut-eye, he couldn’t think straight. He wandered around like a zombie and did
weird stuff. Like the time our flight was delayed in Charlotte. Tommy had taken
his pill too early, thinking we were ready to board the plane. While my back
was turned, he shoved his entire carry-on into a trash receptacle. If I hadn’t
turned around when I did, we would have lost his ID, iPad, and phone. Yes,
Tommy could fly but not without a companion.

I had tried several times to convince Tommy to try something else, like
Dramamine or Xanax, but he was so paranoid about flying that he wasn’t willing
to take a chance on a different drug. Of course, the more I pushed him to quit
taking the Ambien, the more I looked like “Mean Mom,” which was exactly what
Dom probably hoped would happen.

“I know you can’t take time
off,” said Tommy, “and I hate asking you to. But there’s another reason I’m
down. Dad wants me to come home. He says he misses me. He’s bought tickets for
both of us so we can fly out of Miami early Wednesday. But I don’t see how you
can leave the store. Not with the holidays coming.”

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Sometimes you need
to go backwards to move forwards. Especially when you doubt yourself and don't
know what to do next. All my packing was done. Boxes that would go into storage
formed an untidy wall around me.

"Where
you moving to?" asked one of the men from the van lines, as he flicked the
butt of a Camel cigarette onto my lawn. Except it wasn't my lawn. Not anymore.
So why worry?

"I
haven't decided yet."

That
pretty much summed up my life. I was at a crossroads, a spot on the map between
emptiness and confusion—and I didn't know which way to turn. Watching the
workers load up my stuff only made me feel more unsettled. I signed the
paperwork for the movers, hopped in my car, the black Camry I've named Black
Beauty and drove to a familiar parking lot.

"Cara Mia Delgatto! I've been expecting you."
Kiki stood at the back door of her scrapbook and crafting store, Time in a
Bottle. A red dog leash connected her to her rescue pup, Gracie, a harlequin
Great Dane.

"Let
me guess. You were on your way to take this lover dog for a potty break."
I reached down and patted the floppy ears on the black and white giant.

"Uh-huh.
Care to come with? You can tell me how you've been."

We
hadn't gotten halfway around the block when I broke down and started crying
uncontrollably. Kiki and I perched on a low concrete block restraining wall so
I could sob while Gracie sniffed and peed. Kiki put her arm around me, and I
wet her shoulder with tears while she patted my back and murmured, "Get it
all out, Cara. You'll feel better."

When
I'd cried me a river (the Mississippi, I'd guess from the muddy look of it), we
started back to the shop. Once inside, Kiki put Gracie in the doggie playpen
and grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper for me and a bottle of water for her.

"It's
done. Everything's going into storage. I couldn't stand being in that big house
night after night by myself," I said. "I don't want to see the
restaurant again, either. It doesn't matter whether it's called Cara Mia's or
not. That was our place, our family place. Now that Mom and Dad have passed
away, and Tommy's left for school, there's nothing to keep me here in St.
Louis. Besides, winter is coming and I've always hated cold weather."

"Time
to make a new plan and move on down the highway." Kiki smiled at me, her
curls framing her round face. One hand rested protectively on her belly.

"But
I'll be leaving so much behind."

"Yes,
and you have your whole life ahead of you. Come on back to the store. I have a
little gift for you."

When
I was seated at her work table, she handed me a gift bag filled with tissue
paper. I reached inside and pulled out a memory album of my years in St. Louis.

"This
is just grand." I paged through the album. "I could never have done
anything like this."

"We
all save our memories in different ways. You are just as sentimental as I am,
Cara. Look at you! I bet those are Tommy's old jeans you're wearing, right?
Your son grew out of them and now they're yours."

"That's
right. At the restaurant, I always had to wear a little black dress, so in my
free time, I like dressing down. My belt was once my father's, but I had it
shortened to fit. These rings on my right hand are my mother's engagement and
wedding rings."

"May
I remind you of all the redecorating you did at the restaurant, and how you
came in under budget?" Kiki grinned. "In addition, you always smell
like sandalwood. Is there a memory associated with that?"

"Sandalwood
brings back good memories of summers in Florida. My parents used to rent an
apartment above an antique store called The Treasure Chest. The owner stocked
the rental with bars of sandalwood soap."

As
she had predicted, that long crying jag had been cathartic. With my gift under
my arm, we walked to Kiki's car. She reached in and handed me a heavy shopping
bag.

"Another gift?" I squealed.

"There's a surprise for you to
enjoy on the road so you'll think of me."

"Like
I could ever forget you!" I took the gift and thanked her.

With
her hands on my shoulders, Kiki looked at me with moist eyes. "I expect
you to stay in touch."

Nodding,
but too choked up to respond, I turned and walked to my car.

I
waved once more, pulled out of the parking lot and tried not to look back. The
hardest part of my journey was just ahead, as I'd have to drive past the Arch,
that magnificent silver rainbow in the sky. It had always been a talisman, a
welcome mat.

But
this time, it seemed to wave goodbye.

Coming soon! Okay, it WAS supposed to be done by now, but life got in the way. That ever happen to you?

Saturday, October 26, 2013

The entire novella will be free from Oct. 29 through Oct. 31 (Tuesday through Thursday). On those days ONLY, you'll be able to "purchase" the novella at no cost. You can get your copy FREE on those days only by going to http://tinyurl.com/HalloweenCC

"If
it’s spooky or scary, count me out," I said, shaking my head no for
emphasis.

Detective
Chad Detweiler grinned at me before planting a quick kiss on my lips. "Even
if I’m there to hold your hand?"

My
honey and I were meeting with our friends, Clancy Whitehead and Johnny
Chambers, to discuss how we would celebrate Halloween.

"But
I thought Halloween was your favorite holiday!" Clancy shook her head at
me. She's one of my favorite people, my co-worker at Time in a Bottle, the
scrapbook and craft store that I now own.

"It
is my fave holiday. I love the colors. Orange. Purple. Neon green. Black. And
all the darling images."

"And the
candy," said Detweiler, laughingly.
"There's that, too," I admitted. "But the scary stuff? Not so
much."

What
an interesting picture we must have made. All four of us were very different. Leaning
against the doorsill in my office was the oh-so-classic Clancy, a dead-ringer
for Jackie Kennedy, right down to the dark auburn bob. Sitting on the corner of
my big desk was Johnny, who has Bad Boy written all over him, with that sort of
Cool Hand Luke. And then there was my wonderful Knight in Shining Armor,
Detective Chad Detweiler, with his long legs and amazing green-gold eyes. And
me? Well, I look like a demented beach ball because I'm seven months pregnant
with a head full of curly, dishwater blond hair. I was sitting at my desk in
the big black leather chair, and Detweiler was standing next to me.

To
underscore how adamant I was, I crossed my arms. Or tried to. I couldn't
exactly fit my arms over my baby bump. Right now, Alfred Hitchcock and I were
sharing a profile. "I love Halloween, but I draw the line at being
frightened out of my mind. I get enough crummy surprises in my daily life,
thank you."

No
matter how hard I try—even when issuing a warning about scary stuff—I can’t look
stern for long. Especially not when I'm around my friends.

"Wooo,
tough talk from the little lady." Johnny winked at me, and I giggled

"Kiki,
when you draw a line, it's usually to start a new craft project," said
Clancy, with a chuckle. "How about if I give you a giant eraser and you
start over? Don't be so negative, girlfriend. It wouldn't be Halloween if we
didn't do something at least mildly woo-woo."

"She's
right, Kiki. Clancy and I want to have a little fun this Halloween," added
Johnny. "And we'd like to do something fun with the two of you."

"How
about we sit at home and carve pumpkins?" I asked. “I need to get my
jack-o-lanterns done.”

"That's
so…you." Detweiler took my hand and kissed my fingers. I turned and stared
into those amazing Heineken bottle green eyes of his.

My
name is Kiki Lowenstein, and I’m the original Mrs. Nice Guy. I like butterflies
and rainbows, puppies and kittens, sugar and spice, sweet smelling flowers,
chocolate, and paper. Lots and lots of paper.

Vitamin
C, otherwise known as “cute,” is a life enhancing supplement. All of us need our
daily quota. You can never have too much “cute” in your life.

Well,
that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

"So
the woman who stared down a murderer is a great big ‘fraidy cat." Johnny smirked
at me.

"Ah,
but remember, dear friend, cats have nine lives," I said. "There's a
reason for that, Johnny. Cats know when to run away and when to fight another
day."

"No
fighting," said Detweiler. "Just loving. Come here, you."

He
pulled me to my feet and hugged me. Safe in the shelter of his arms, I relaxed
by listening to the soft lub-lub-lub of his heart. All was well in our world.

Our
baby was due on January 15th. My daughter Anya was thirteen going on
thirty and so excited about Halloween she couldn't talk about anything else.
And our family had been enlarged by the addition of Erik, a child from
Detweiler's first marriage (sort of), and Brawny, the nanny who came along with
the boy. (It's a long story. Trust me!)

Life
was good. Really good, as life always is when you're surrounded by family and
friends.

"Right,"
said Detweiler, "but she's driving herself crazy working and working too
hard. That's why I suggested that we do something fun."

I
nodded. “But I'm not interested in being jumped at, touched, or grabbed in the
dark by people I didn’t know. Especially if they’re dressed like Frankenstein
or the Mummy or even Count Dracula. Ugh."

"But
dressing in a costume has a certain appeal," said Clancy.

"Some,"
I admitted.

"Just
think," said Johnny. "You could dress up like Annie Oakley. Especially
since you're such an expert with a gun."

I
don’t like being teased, especially about the fact that I shot my husband's
murderer in the head. It hadn't been pretty. It hadn't been empowering. I
didn’t get a rush like I did when I heard Dirty Harry say, "Make my day."
No, all I felt was sad.

To
get through the experience, I reminded myself that it had been necessary.
Otherwise Johnny and I wouldn’t be standing here today. I didn't like thinking
about it, and Johnny was getting on my nerves.

Detweiler
sensed this and put one hand on my shoulder in solidarity.

"I
did what I had to do so we could survive," I said, trying to keep the
irritation out of my voice. "This is different. You all are talking about
getting your wits scared out of you as a form of recreation. If that’s your
idea of a good time, have at it, go ahead, love you to bits, but I’m taking a
pass."

"Down
girl! Don't get all het up," said Johnny.

"It's
the stress talking," said Clancy. "She's been working like a fiend on
that charity crop."

"True,"
I said.

"All
the more reason to plan something fun," said Johnny.

"Also
true."

"As
much as I hate to cut this short, I also need to get to work," said
Detweiler. "Kiki, if you don’t want to visit a haunted house, we’ll find
another way to have enjoy the holiday. No problem, babe."

Yeah,
but it would be a problem. I was being a real party pooper, and I knew it.

With
off-site crops, there were a lot of moving parts that have to align for us to
have a good time. Since this was a fundraiser, the moving parts had to thought
out carefully. We couldn’t afford to waste a cent. The event had to make a
splash, or people wouldn't shell out their coins to come. It had to appeal to
scrapbookers, cardmarkers, and papercrafters of all ilk. The location had to be
a "wow." The entertainment doubly so. The "make and take"
portion—the actual crafts we'd be teaching our guests—had to be unique, simple
to do, but cool enough that they wouldn't bore our regular store clientele to
tears. And last, but definitely not least…we had to have food. Really, really
good food.

After
considering all our options, there was really only one place worthy of kicking
off our big event, and that was the Lemp Mansion. The mansion has a history of
misery second to none.

In 1876, beer baron William J. Lemp
and his wife Julia moved in, turning the thirty-three room house into a
showplace. Lemp also decided to use his home as his office, taking advantage of
a tunnel extending from the house to the caves under St. Louis. These naturally
occurring storage shelters provided the refrigeration so vitally important to the
brewing process.

Thanks
to a series of shrewd business decisions made by William, the Falstaff brand
expanded from a local brew to a label enjoyed around the world. Although the
Lemps were thriving financially, unbeknownst to William and Julia, their fourth
son, Frederick, had significant health problems. When Frederick died from
complications, William shot himself in despair.

William
J. Lemp, Jr. ("Billy") took over the family business. He and his wife
Lillian, nicknamed the "Lavender Lady," moved into the Lemp Mansion.
An acrimonious divorce followed. Billy was granted only visitation rights to
see his son, William III. Two years later, Prohibition dealt a harsh blow to
the business, and Billy was forced to sell first the trademark name, and then
the brewery.

Meanwhile,
after suffering her own marital problems, Billy's sister shot herself. Two
years later, Billy shot himself in his office inside the mansion. And two
decades later, the last Lemp to live in the mansion, Charles, shot his dog and
then himself in the head.

In
1980, Life magazine named the Lemp Mansion one of the nine most haunted houses
in the country. Since then both the Discovery and the Travel Channel have given
the Lemp Mansion a nod for being terrifying.

Since
I'm such a Chicken Little, I decided that we'd visit the Lemp Mansion while it
was still daylight, walk one block to The Old Social Hall, an event space that
had once been exactly as its name implied. There we would have an actress, Faye
Edorra, pose as the Lavender Lady herself and entertain us with ghost stories.

You can't have a crop without food. It's
simply not done. Although my dear friend Cara Mia Delgatto had moved to
Florida, I still relied on her family restaurant for most of our catering
needs. Recently a young woman named Angela Orsini had been promoted to the post
of catering manager. Angela and I had worked up a fun menu for the charity
crop. The Old Social Hall had a kitchen, so we were good to go. We would crop
in one room and then adjourn to a second room to eat. That would keep food and
drink away from paper products, preventing the predictable problems of
spillage.

Once those details were in place, I
turned my attention to the crafting portion of our crop. Here at Time in a
Bottle, we've garnered a bit of a reputation for coming up with unique, totally
superb "make-and-take" sessions. The name evolved from the idea that
you could "make" something and "take" it home with you
after the event. But we took the concept one step further. All of our
make-and-take sessions also taught our customers a new skill or technique. And
all of them were original. After attending one of our crops, people actually
talked about our sessions for weeks, making them one of our best marketing
tools.

After
our impromptu "how do you solve a problem like Halloween?" meeting broke
up, and I went back to planning the creative portion of the event.

In
fact, I was hunched over a project at my worktable when a finger tapped me on
the shoulder. The gesture so startled me so much that I nearly fell off my stool.

"A
little jumpy? Good thing I didn't yell, 'Boo!'" Laurel Wilkins, another
co-worker and friend, pulled up a stool so she could join me. "Are you
doing anything special for Halloween? Besides our Halloween Crafting
Spook-tacular? Something that involves costumes?"

"Um,
we were just talking about that earlier," I said. "Why?"

"Well,"
she looked down at the tabletop and drew a circle with the tip of her finger. "I
actually have a guy I've been wanting all of you to meet."

This
was big news. Usually Laurel is very quiet about her personal life. In fact,
Clancy and I have discussed the fact that we know very little about her. I
mean, she's sweet and wonderful, and she looks like a movie star, but Laurel
never talks about her history or what she does outside of work.

I
glanced around and saw Clancy standing by a display unit taking inventory. A
slight tilt of her head told me that she was listening in to our conversation. This
was an opportunity not to be missed to know Laurel better.

"We
talked about visiting a haunted house. There are so many of them popping up."
Now that Laurel wanted to join us, I had to agree to do something. Anything! So
I floated the idea, although I suggested it reluctantly.

"Who's
we?" Laurel's ears perked up.

"Detweiler,
Clancy, Johnny, and me. But I have to be honest. I hate being scared half out
of my wits. Besides, I'd like to do something that would include Anya and Erik,"
I said. "Although since he’s only five, I'm not sure how he'd feel about
something so spooky. I suppose I could leave him home with Brawny, but that
doesn't seem right."

Bronwyn
Macavity is the nanny who came to us with Erik. Her salary is taken care of by
Erik's aunt. She's been a real godsend because she drives the kids around and
cooks for us, as well as serving as a 24/7 babysitter. But she's also part of
the family. At least, that's the way Detweiler and I see it. We like to include
her as much as possible.

Laurel
nodded. "I wouldn’t want to exclude Erik or Brawny. So it has to be
something sort of family oriented. I know you are trying hard to make Erik feel
comfortable. He’s been through so much already."

"Look,
I don’t want to be a party pooper. You all could go to a haunted house. Take
Anya along with. I’ll stay home with Erik and Brawny."

Of
course, I didn’t mean a word of that. I would hate to be left out, but it did
seem like giving everyone else permission to go without me was the gracious
thing to do.

"I
understand how you feel, Kiki," said Laurel, patting me on the shoulder. "I
like costumes, but I don't like things that are too gruesome. Don’t worry. We’ll
think of something fun to do. I just hate to let the holiday go by without
having a little Halloween-type get together."

Clancy
came over from her spot by the display unit. "Look, Kiki, we wouldn’t
enjoy ourselves if you didn’t come with us. We've all been working hard. Too
hard. We’ll make another plan. I’ve never been overly fond of haunted houses
either. Some of them are okay, but I was in one where this hand reached out and
grabbed—"

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Friday, October 25, 2013

This ZIA (Zentangle Inspired Art) was inspired by a new book, The Beauty of Zentangle, where a sister CZT, Kate Lamontagne, did a piece called "Under the Sea." Kate was in the same CZT class with me.

To create it, I started by making a blue-green watercolor background. I sprinkled rock salt on the paper to lift the color in areas. When it was dry, I photocopied it so I could try several tangles. Also, the photocopy paper is slicker than watercolor paper, so it provided a surface that would bleed less.

The waves and shells were done with sparkly ink pens. I colored in my waves with pencils, then applied acetone to smooth out the color. I did the same on the sea shells.

The green plant was made by layering green leaves that I cut by hand.

I drew the beta and its fins. You can't really see how glittery the image is, but the sequins and glitter do add a bit of pop.

Monday, October 21, 2013

The ability to edit your own work is incredibly important. For obvious reasons, editors prefer authors who can turn in clean copy. Beyond lightening an editor's workload, there are other reasons that you need to be good at editing--it's your name on the book!

Over the years I've picked up great ideas for editing. Here's the best summary of what you should be doing--

Edit your work inpasses.

In other words, don't go over it once and consider it done. Read it several times, for several different reasons. Read it first for pacing and continuity. Read it again for logic. Finally read it to proofread for grammar, spelling, etc.

Let's break that down:

1. Read it for pacing and continuity. Does it drag? Does every scene contribute and move the plot along? If you delete a scene does it matter? (If the answer is, "No," then the scene is going to drag the plot down.) Can you up the tension in the scene? Can you use a chapter break to create a mini-cliffhanger? Are the characters consistent in their behavior?

2. Read it for logic. Are the sequences of the sentences appropriate? Do they build on each other? Do they happen in a logical order? Are there any questions left unanswered? Does your premise and the premise of your characters make sense? Do you maintain an internal logic? And finally, if someone walks into a room, where do they go? What happens to them? Did you maintain a logic to their arrival and departure?

3. Read it for grammatical errors, spelling errors, and consistency of style.
It takes forever to edit a book this way. Unfortunately, a poorly edited book is a book that won't be enjoyed by your reader, so make the time!

Monday, October 14, 2013

But Bichons are also prone to a variety of problems, and poor teeth are right up there at the top of the list. They are also very emotionally sensitive. Leaving them behind really makes them upset.

To combat both problems, I've come up with this treat. Using Easy Cheese (otherwise know as Cheese Whiz), I squirt a little of the cheesy goo into a Kong, a rubber treat that's red and reminds me of the Michelin Man.

﻿

After I've filled all my Kongs (I keep four of them on hand), I pop them into a zipper top plastic bag. These go into the freezer.

Why are these such a great idea? First of all, gnawing on the Kong helps remove dental plaque. Second, because the treat is frozen inside, it takes a long time for Rafferty to get to the good stuff. And third, there's a small amount of treat per Kong, so it doesn't upset his tummy or add inches to his svelte waist line. Best of all, I can give one to Raffi when I leave the house so he's busy and happy while I'm gone.

I love the convenience of reaching into the bag, grabbing a cold Kong, and sharing it with my pet. Let me know if your dog enjoys this, too!

Saturday, October 12, 2013

So I am now self-publishing the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series. I had self-published other books years ago, so this is will be fine…eventually…although there have been many changes since I founded “Spot On Publishing.”

I had already mastered the mechanism for putting short stories up on Amazon. They’ve made it very, very easy, bless them! The folks at Amazon have been simply terrific to work with. And financially, it’s been an absolute godsend.

I now have an assistant, Sally, and she’s working to get the books printed on paper. We hope to announce that we’ve conquered this new technology very shortly!

However, as you might imagine, you can’t give away a book on paper for FREE. There are costs involved—paper, ink, printing, shipping, storage, and mail, not to include insurance, bookkeeping, boxing up, and fulfillment. So to keep the series alive, to keep readers interested while we work out the details of print publication, I’m releasing new books as epublications. Frankly, we’re also hoping that by releasing the epublications and giving them away for free, we can actually grow the number of Kiki fans!

In the long run, I think I’ll be able to satisfy my readers and their interest in Kiki. Since I’ll be in charge of my own covers, my editing, pricing, and release dates, I can do as I wish. Since I’m a bit of a control freak, I like that!

But as my assistant reminds me, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

This year I’ve written countless short stories and four books. (Yes, you read that right--FOUR.) Most authors write one a year. So, we’re working hard…

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

When folks complain of "writer's block," they're often complaining that they've gotten stuck. Or that they just don't know what to write next.

That can happen to any of us.

Maybe you know how your book will begin. You might also know how it ends. But what will you do to fill three hundred pages in the middle? Ah, that's the rub. Suddenly, you are stuck.

When I get stuck, here are some ways I get "un-stuck" --

Change It Up--

Change of scenery -- I revisit my protagonist's world and move her/him to another spot. I find this useful for signaling a plot point or a change of heart.

Change of mind -- Most of us don't move smoothly from Point A to Point B. We zig and zag. We have conflicting emotions. Sometimes we encounter new information. Or we mull over a problem and reconsider what we know. Someone will tell us something we didn't know. A change of mind gives your protagonist a new course to explore.

Change of cast -- You have to be careful not to introduce people willy-nilly, but once in a while, you need someone new to enter the fray. This newbie can tell your protagonist something he or she doesn't know.

Doing What Comes Naturally--

I've found that blocks come when I try to force my characters to twist into unnatural positions. If the action springs naturally, if the sequence is logical, it's easier to write about it.

Brainstorm Twenty Ways to Proceed--

My friend and mentor Emilie Richards told me that a friend of hers suggested brainstorming a list of twenty things that could happen. Your first five will be predictable. The next five a little less so. The next five might be outlandish. But the final five will really tax your brain. Stretching is good exercise. One of your twenty ways to proceed will probably work. Maybe even two or three of them will. Choose the option that's right for your book.

Check on a Secondary Character--
Remember the phrase, "Meanwhile, back at the ranch"? That's a nifty segue, a change to revisit a secondary character, and peek in on what he/she's doing.

Whatever You Do--

Don't give up. It's far too easy to toss your work-in-progress into the trash and start over. The process of working through your stumbling blocks is valuable. Quitting isn't!

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you,
Sunshine, you’ll feel better about it when you’ve gotten more rest. Things
always look their worst when you’re tired.” Her large hand patted my shoulder
as she scooted a cold aluminum can my way. I took the cold Diet Dr Pepper and
then realized, this behavior was totally out of character for Dodie.

“Sheila called you.”

“Yes, she did.” My boss didn’t even
have the good grace to look embarrassed.

“That’s not fair!”

“She was worried about you.”

“I bet.”

“You ran over her neighbor’s mailbox,”
said Dodie. “And you kept on going.”

“I wondered what that
bumpity-bump-bump-bump noise was.”

“Now you know. That was the sound of a
once sturdy four-by-four being dragged along a city street. In Ladue.”

“Argh,” I groaned and rested my
forehead on my arms again. “That’ll be an expensive fix.”

“Not really. Robbie and the neighbor
discussed the damage. Seems that the neighbor has wanted to put up a brick
mailbox stand for years. Robbie offered to help. You’re in the clear,
Sunshine.”

“Argh,” I groaned again, but the Diet
Dr Pepper was definitely lifting my spirits. “Dodie, do you think there’s only
one person in the world for each of us? A soul mate? Just one?”

She fiddled with her Coke can. “That’s
what I tell Horace. That he’s my one and only.”

“So you do believe it.”

“No, but I’m a good liar. Especially
when it counts. There’s no reason for Horace to think he’s replaceable. He’s
not. And I’m not about to go looking. But do I really believe there’s only one
person for each of us? No. There are millions upon millions of people in this
world. I think you could love and live with at least a handful.”

I wiped my eyes and took a big drink
of my Dr Pepper. “A handful.”

“At least. Now get to work. I’m not
paying you to sit around and wax philosophical.”

She’d almost made it back to the stock
room when I called out, “Dodie? Thank you.”

“It’s okay, Sunshine. My therapist’s
license never came through. The advice I gave you is worth exactly what you
paid for it.”

Friday, October 4, 2013

You can download Ink, Red, Dead for FREE from Oct. 5 thru 7 (Saturday through Monday) by going to http://tinyurl.com/inkred Here's the deal: As long as you keep spread the word and tell your friends about my free offers, I'll continue making my books available for FREE for a limited time!

Note: The new revision is book length with craft "how to" information and recipes!

By Joanna Campbell Slan

Copyright 2013

Note: The new revision is book length with craft "how to" information and recipes!

~

In the chronology of Kiki's life this book is now Book #3 in the series, falling between Cut, Crop and Die; and Photo, Snap, Shot. Kiki is assisting her friend Mert in cleaning out a hoarder's house. Because the place is so gross, Kiki is wearing a Tyvek suit and headgear, despite the fact that the heat outside is beastly!

~

I
was rubbing at my skin fiercely when something landed on the top of my head.

I
whooped with fear, batting at my hood with both hands.

No
one heard me because everyone else was busy in other corners of the house.
Trudy in the back bedroom. Johnny in the garage. Mert in the kitchen.

The thing on my head slipped to one
side. Tiny pinpricks stabbed through the Tyvek and into my scalp. A tiny yellow
paw appeared through the lenses of my goggles. I held perfectly still. Was it
possible that a cat had landed on me? Had one been overlooked?

But this…this thing on my head was far
too light to be a cat.

I froze, strained my ears, and was rewarded by
the tiniest “meow” ever, in a voice so hoarse I nearly missed it. Slowly I moved
my hand upwards. Finally, I plucked from my head a palm-sized yellow tabby. He
stared at me with lime-green eyes and tried to “meow” again but nothing came
out.

“You poor little tyke. They rounded up
everyone else, didn’t they? Let’s see what we can do for you.”

I carried the kitten over to Mert,
who’d been working in Marla’s bedroom. We walked outside. She pulled off her
hood, glanced down at the kitten, and gave me a glum look. “He’ll probably
die.”

“What?” I cradled the cat to my chest.
“What do you mean, die? He’ll be okay. Has to!”

She sighed. “Most of Marla’s cats were
sick. If this one don’t have feline distemper, it’s a miracle. You can’t take
him home because he’ll only kick the kitty litter bag over on you—and that
would break your heart.”

“He’ll make it. You can tell he’s a
fighter. His name is Martin.” I said without thinking. I don’t know why I
called him “Martin,” but it fit.

“Martin, huh? Oh, boy. Change outta
your biohazard suit and drive him over to the shelter. See what they say, then
get right back here.”

Handing him to Mrs. Gershin, the
shelter volunteer, nearly did me in. Martin clung to me. On the ride over, he’d
curled up in my lap and purred. Now he cried out hoarsely, as the volunteer
tried to disentangle him from my clothes. He gripped me with his claws and
seemed to beg me not to walk away.

“Sad day. We’ve put twenty-two cats to
sleep already.” She held up Martin with one hand and examined him carefully.
“Very young. I’d guess he’s two weeks old. See how his ears are still folded
over? This one will need to be hand-fed.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll hand feed him.”

“You want to get up every four hours?”

I swallowed hard. “Uh, no. But I will.”

“Hey
there, little boy,” cooed Mrs. Gershin.

“His name is Martin.”

A flicker of a smile started on Mrs.
Gershin’s face and blossomed into a big grin. “You’re sunk. Once you name them,
you claim them.”

I figured as much. “I have to get back
to work.”

“We close at five. Come back then.
I’ll give you instructions for feeding Martin. We’ll have the vet check him.
You do know you’ll have to encourage his bowels to move, don’t you?”

“I’ve probably encouraged bowel
movements in the past. But not on purpose.”

She grinned. “Let’s see if we can
perfect your technique.”**Remember: This is a limited time offer. The book is FREE on three days only--Saturday, October 5; Sunday, October 6; and Monday, October 7. After that it will go back to full retail price of $9.99. Get your copy today at http://tinyurl.com/inkred